No Amount of Gentleness

You would think pureness of heart  would warrant its own protection, like our babies could play freely,  our children could sing in the streets. 

What if the same exhales that speak  in the face of mistreatment

also

grow the plants that feed us?

What if the color of our skin was proof  the sun shines 

also

for us? 

I guess no amount of gentleness will ever reflect value if our most innocent are still killed in their beds,  last words recorded as whispered pleas,  murders televised and widely mourned,  but, 

justice 

somehow still 

out 

of  

reach. 

Echo

The sirens song of sorrow comes to me in waves

First, after 300 years,

Then again, after 100.

The time between each refrain decreases

And the verses grow in length,

They tell me crimes committed, unrepented.

They tell me of ghosts still haunting us,

Fantoms summoned and unvanquished.

I heard the song again, after 50 years,

After 20.

They tell me that trees again

Are bearing strange fruit.

The soil is poison here, nothing left but to uproot.

If we keep sowing seeds in salted earth,

We’ll starve.

There’s no room to grow.

I heard the song again, after 10 years,

After 5.

They say our girls are disappearing again,

Bodies washing up on the banks

With bruises beaten by our brothers.

There is poison in this water.

Wrath in the wades that wash up our wilted women,

But does not cleanse.

If we keep building cities on these beaten banks, we’ll drown.

There’s no room to breathe.

I heard the song again after 2 years,

After 1.

An infinite reverberation or pleading sorrow singing

“How can this keep happening?”

“Why does this keep happening?”

“This must stop happening.”

“This will stop happening.”

Summer: Accept All Departures*

I wonder do you know how stifling  your fear became?  You threatened to keep me  under lock and key,  where you could always see  that I was safe.  You threatened to take  the sun away,  keep me from growing into who I wanted to be.  Did you know?  How stifling your fear became?  I wondered.  Why you could never let the sun shine.  Were you afraid I’d grow out of your reach? 

How does it feel now that I’ve grown?  too tall to be suppressed. You can’t keep the sun from me now.  I know her love to be stronger. Than your fear.  And she never ties me down.  Where my roots settle,  is my choosing. 

I’ll write a poem for every person that reblogs.

I did this one time when I had more followers but idk if it’ll lift off now.

Moon Wars, Again.

Somehow, we ended on opposite sides of the sky. 

Every year, you wait to see the moon and star  that starts this holy month and  I could never see it. 

Nine Ramadans alone, each weighing  differently than the last. 

The first time, I kept to my corner,  praying in the little space I carved for myself and you went on like normal,  angry at slight infractions,  basking in your own struggle.  when every dua I made was for you. 

Every year after,  I wondered if my duas were heard,  and the chasm between us  grew deeper. 

I found myself burrowed deeper  in the space I’d carved for myself,  unable to connect. 

Each year was another battle in the moon wars,  waiting for the skies to clear  to see the signs  you’ve waited for. 

I keep fearing I’ll never see it. 

From Disappear by Tonight Alive (Feat. Lynn Gunn) 

Wading’s not enough, It’s more than just dipping your feet in. 

Dive in if you want, but I’ll be jumping off in the deep end. 

We could disappear for a while. 

We could disappear for a while. 

It’s not running away. We were never meant to stay in the first place. 

We could disappear for a while. 

From Disappear by Tonight Alive (Feat. Lynn Gunn) 

Try/Enough version 2

Inspired by quote by Nikki Giovanni: “The unwillingness to try is worse than any failure.

Try/Enough

Inspired by quote by Nikki Giovanni: “The unwillingness to try is worse than any failure.

Love and let love

I want to match you

Syllable for syllable

And breath for breath.

If you’ll have me,

I’ll write histories

Into the lines

Of your hand,

I’ll rhyme ever song

With the sound

Of your hicupping gasp.

Love me.

Let me love you.

When your heart resonates,

Let it reverberate in my chest.

Each vibration transferred

from your voice,

To my hand.

Match my every

Breath for your own,

My words for yours.

Love me.

Let me love you.

Separate

If I could find where my song was carried

When wind whistled through my barren canyon

And stole the tune of my blooming lungs.

Would that place be where my bones are buried

Alongside stone and fossilized tree roots

Beneath layers of soil, soil, oxygen?

Would that place be where I carried myself,

Searching for my song on vagabond feet?

Supple skin sunken, dried, dehydrated.

Or are they buried where I was stranded,

Wind still whistling in the barren canyon

And the sun set never to rise again.

Could I just grow anywhere I’m  stranded? planted? 

Can I just grow fully into myself? 

Moon Wars // Anger + Forgiveness

I’m not a stereotype:  the anger that coats my words  and lingers in my voice  is the anger I inherited from my father.  He says our background made us into who we are and in the same breath, he is angry about it.  Upset that it was written already  that he would struggle,  that I would struggle  that every person whose skin looks like ours  is destined to struggle. 

I once wrote a poem about the things  we never talked about when I was growing up.  In it, I told myself I wouldn’t always be angry. 

My father says we have creative backgrounds.  He means normal people don’t have addicts for mothers.  Which would be true, but we both do.  And my father apologizes  for the same shortcomings he’s always had,  for the things he never inherited from his mother, and could never give to me. 

One day, I learned to forgive without  ever receiving an apology.,  And it’s better that way,  because some apologies sound more insincere,  the more they’re repeated. 

Some crimes cannot be apologized for,  cannot be forgiven. 

If the treachery of it never ends,  will the anger ever subside? 

If we stop tallying the transgressions,  will the score settle itself? 

In 2014, I told myself I wouldn’t always be angry,  Perhaps that’s still true,  but I’ve found there are worse things to be than angry. 

Twice a year, my father stands watch seeking the moon and star that mark the beginning and end of  Ramadan.  And he does not begin his fast  until he’s seen the four pointed star  cradled in the crescent of the moon.  For thirty days every year,  he knows peace. 

Perhaps that’s all he’ll ever get. 

I tell myself I won’t always be angry,  but I’ve never met a single black person  who has outgrown this discontent. Instead, I’ve seen it thickened  by years of compounded dissatisfaction.  I’ve seen it strengthened  by the development of self-esteem,  the self-awareness of our worthiness.  I’ve never known it to be vanquished. 

This isn’t meant to be outgrown. 

I do write about you.

Before,  the tone was always vibrant,  violently bright,  anger in every syllable,  disappointment in every breath. 

I wrote to work my way through the swamp of grief  I inherited from you. 

Each poem was a weed killer,  water purifier, hedge clipper.  I cleaned myself up,  Tried to make myself into  The daughter you deserve. 

I cleaned myself of expectations,  uprooted any ideas I had of how families should be,  and I planted the seeds I was given. 

Now,  the tone is always vibrant,  violently bright,  love in every syllable,  acceptance in every breath. 

2014

I was writing a poem called “I didn’t know I was suicidal until I wasn’t.”

It sent me spiraling into places I hadn’t been for years.

I never aimed to hurt myself but I lived so many years wondering why I existed, wishing I didn’t.

I remember telling myself to stop wondering why it hurt so much but the pain was a flood and I was the gate

And in 2014, the dam broke.

Or rather all the patches I’d plugged in during the 19 years prior gave simultaneously,

the whole structure of my life heaved

And I didn’t know that I sought my own destruction

Until I began to rebuild.

Mamas

Some questions even mamas can’t answer,

but I have grown into understanding.

I wondered at the crease in your brow,

the silent tears deposited in ashtrays

on winter mornings with no electricity.

There were so many things I did not understand then.

You used to hide sorrow in the steam of boiling water for baths,

yellow light in the hallway from extension cords

leading from the neighbors downstairs to us.

There were so many things I did not understand then.

The food boxes from the mission

held food we only ate when we were starving.

Some weeks we subsisted on hot water corn bread

and pinto beans

and gratitude.

And some days I still didn’t get it, didn’t understand, how you

hid grace in fingers raw from cleaning houses for pay,

hid grace in fingers cramped from braiding hair for pay,

hid grace in fingers worn from caring for other peoples children, for pay.

There were many things I did not understand then.

But you were still my mother,

when the sun and moon were our only light.

My mother, when the only heat was body heat

and one blanket between us and the concrete floor.

My mother, when further arrangements needed to be made

behind closed doors.

You are still my mother.

You taught me grace when

you were worked to the bone,

skin puffed from being overwrought,

wrung out, wronged.

You taught me gratitude when

conditions were subpar,

to be glad to have anything

when so many times we could

have had nothing.

And because our life is as it is,

You taught me the same sorrow

your mother taught you,

let it seep into the creases

of your smile,

the wrinkles beside your eyes,

and when I look in the mirror,

I see the same unavoidable sadness

at being made to live like this.

But I know it’s not your fault.

It never was.

And everyday I understand it more.

“The First Stop After Recovery Street” | @writesoftlytay